by R. L. Perry
And she was holding one of the steel hooks.
In that moment, I reacted and hurled myself at the woman as I grabbed the steel hook before she could raise it. Somehow, I managed to pry it from her hand as she slipped on the ice and then scurried away, nearly skating over the top of the slick concrete floor.
But I pursued.
We careened and bobbed, at various times colliding on the shipping boxes or slipping on ice chips, but each time she eluded my grip. I grabbed at her wrists. She batted my hand away. I slipped and stretched out for an ankle. In great shape for her age, she retreated on the ice and scurried away. Piqued with adrenalin, we created an elusive dance, sometimes with me in the lead and other times falling behind. Plastic bags were tossed. Ice was thrown. Boxes were overturned.
But as she careened toward the back door of the warehouse, I caught up to her near the conveyor belt and, instead of grabbing for her, I pushed—and she cascaded into the moving contraption, her sleeve serendipitously caught in one of the rollers. She attempted to free herself but much of the fight, and the energy, had gone out of her. She was a trapped animal.
Unable to move, and clearly in pain, the woman was relieved when she saw me hurry across the floor and power down the ice maker—it’s whine and movement grinding to a stop, the gentle hush of its motor giving way to the sound of water moving through pipes, a giant faucet with a noisy drip. As she began to sob I began to breathe again, my heart still racing, my lungs catching up to the pace of the pursuit.
Suddenly, from the back of the room, the young man gave a war whoop which echoed around the warehouse and he tossed me a thumbs-up sign. “Milt’s okay,” he yelled.
I couldn’t respond, but when he yelled out—“That was awesome! What a chase!”—I must have smiled. He gave me another thumbs-up sign.
I nodded, my hand still poised on the operating panel of the ice machine. It was, at once, both a powerful and helpless moment. But words eluded me.
I was still standing at the controls when, much to my relief, Lance burst through the office door with his gun drawn.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Minutes later, in the aftermath of the mayhem, other sirens stirred and emergency personnel arrived to pick up the broken pieces and shape the initial outline of the puzzle. I gave Lance a quick hug for good measure, but then stepped out of the way so he could read rights, hand-cuff, and go through his paces.
There were other officers interrogating the young man. One cop was taking his statement on a steno pad, the kid pressed up against the industrial freezer where we’d first met, his voice loud enough to be heard by all. The ice, now melted and pooled on the concrete floor, glistened like a small pond.
But I was still trying to make sense of the picture—while also wanting to be helpful. I retreated once again to the back of the warehouse and helped the EMTs move Milt to the ambulance. His injuries, not as severe as I had imagined, offered him an interlude to talk—and the initial diagnosis of the emergency personnel was that Milt had suffered a concussion. Milt, groggy but injected with new energy, insisted that I ride alongside him in the ambulance. “You saved my life,” he kept saying.
“It wasn’t me,” I answered. “The kid did it.”
“Tommy?” Milt beamed, glancing over at the young man. “Thank God he was late to work . . . as usual. If he hadn’t been on the docks, still loading ice into his truck, I might not be here.”
I gave Lance a nod as he escorted his prisoner to the exit, and obliged Milt’s request, grateful to be riding in the back of a wagon instead of a hearse. Lying on the gurney, Milt was already bandaged and in good spirits. When we departed from the ice factory parking lot, the ambulance rolled along at an easy pace without sirens, the EMTs attentive, but silent.
We had not yet exited the parking lot when Milt thanked me again. He reached over for my hand, and then began to unravel his thoughts.
“I should have seen this coming,” he said. “I should have figured it out.”
“I only have bits and pieces,” I told him, extracting another piece of ice from my coat pocket.
“Cathy, our accountant, is behind the whole thing.”
“The Carringtons?”
“Yes . . . she’s been the one leading the charge for the past two years. She’s been miffed ever since the union was voted down. And after Phil had the industrial ice maker installed and we migrated to the new technology and laid off a few workers, she must have hatched this revenge scheme.”
I struggled to make sense of two deaths, the tainted ice I’d discovered in the Carringtons’ house. “She certainly has a flair for the subtle,” I said.
“After you asked me if the Carringtons had any enemies, I got to thinking about it. Or perhaps I didn’t want to admit it. But I went back and started checking the books. I found discrepancies in the finances. But I knew I would need to build a case, get all of my ducks in a row, before making the accusation. She must have known I was on to her. I had asked to see some financial reports before we closed the office tonight. A few minutes later, she attacked me in the factory. I saw stars, and then came to inside the freezer. Thank God Tommy saw the whole thing . . . and then you showed up. She wasn’t expecting any of the drivers to be at the loading docks . . . and she wasn’t expecting you, either.”
“I guess she thought she could manage it under the table if the Carringtons and you were out of the picture.”
Milt nodded, closed his eyes for a second. “I’m not sure she meant to kill them,” he said. “I would hate to think she was that vindictive, that . . . insidious.”
I considered his conclusion. “Whether she meant to kill or not . . . that’s up to the courts. But she certainly spent time, premeditated time, creating the tainted ice that she took to the Carringtons’ house.”
“It’s what she knows,” Milt added with a sigh. “She was something of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She organized the Christmas gifts, took the food to the Carringtons’ house, the whole thing. I see it now. And all it took was a simple clubbing over the head.”
“But how—?”
“—How did she do it?”
“Yes. The listeria. The mercury poisoning. Who would have thought of it?”
“She’s been in the ice business for a long time,” Milt said. “She knows the product. Purity is essential to success. And so is the chemistry of water. She knew what to look for, what to take out. It only makes sense that she also knew what to put in, where to find it, how to obtain it . . . and how to do it. And as you said, who would think to check the ice?”
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“How’s that?”
“The Carringtons were done in by the very product they produced.”
Milt closed his eyes again. I glanced out the back window of the ambulance and noted that we had passed over Meridian Street, the lights on the circle hinting at hope. One of the EMTs was listening to a track of “Silent Night” on the dashboard player. It had been quite a day, but was closing with the prospect of peace. There were lights in the sky and silver bells tinkling in the atmosphere.
I pondered the concoction, the chemistry of water and ice, its ubiquitous kingdom. And as snow began to fall gently upon the windshield of the ambulance, it seemed as if we were being baptized into some new beginning. I thought of Lance again, received a warm rush of love into my veins, longed for his touch, his comfort.
At last, we could put the Carringtons to rest.
We were nearing the hospital and Milt seemed eager to add the final touches to his thoughts. “We’re in this together now,” he said. “You know you’ll have to testify.”
“So will you,” I added.
“And Tommy . . . .”
“We’ll all be up to the task,” I said. “We all have the pieces now. It’s clear.”
“Clear as ice,” Milt sighed.
“Touche,” I said.
The ambulance lilted over the freshly falling snow, and one of the EMTs remarked, “It is beautiful.”
Indeed, even in death there are signs of grace, hints of perfection. One only has to look. Even post-Christmas, the truth still lingers in the shadows.
Further along, as we neared the emergency room entrance to no fanfare, I noted that Milt had fallen asleep, possessed, at last, by the relaxing ministrations of the pain killers the EMTs had administered back at the ice factory. His wounds would heal, and so would mine—a scraped knee and more bruises on my thighs and arms that would reveal themselves in the coming days. But I relaxed myself in the realization that we were on our way home.
And as we pulled into the hospital, I leaned back into my seat. I placed my hands into the pockets of my overcoat, felt there the dots and particles of ice that still lingered in the history of the ice block, and slipped calmly into a sleep of my own.
I dreamed of clear water.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ten o’clock at McKinney’s, Silvia and David met me at our usual booth in the back. It wasn’t a pie kind of night, but we did have drinks. And a tall pour of Cabernet was just what I needed.
“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into,” David intoned after I related the events at the ice factory. I showed Silvia a couple of the bruises on my arms to prove it. I thanked David again for picking me up at the hospital and driving me back to the ice factory to retrieve my car.
“It’s out of my hands now,” I said, gladly turning the work over to Lance and the police. “But it was quite a spectacle.”
“Chilling,” David added. “I didn’t want to say anything, but that place gave me the creeps every time I drove by.”
“That factory has quite a history,” Silvia said. “It’s probably haunted by other times.”
I drank my Cabernet, my face brightening in the warm flush of the alcohol. “The ice factory has a history,” I said. “I just hope it has a future.”
“This guy . . . Milt. He sounds like he’ll keep it going for the Carringtons’ sake,” Silvia said.
“I hope so,” I answered. “If not for him . . . .”
We lifted our glasses in a toast.
Silent in the aftermath of our latest adventure and the ease of our friendship, we sat in the booth and listened to the music playing on the intercom—tones of Sleigh Bells, Joy to the World, White Christmas. Silvia watched the mistletoe bobbing over the bar. David pulled at a raveling on his new chartreuse sweater.
As I neared the bottom of my wine pour, Silvia noted the time. “You’ve had a long day,” she advised. “Don’t you think you’d better get home to Lance? I’m sure he’s finished his work at the precinct by now.”
I nodded.
“Yes, I’m sure he’s got more work for you to do tonight,” David added with a wink.
Silvia elbowed him in the ribs. “Is that all you think about?”
“Hey,” David said. “Give me a break. It’s a guy thing. You know the facts. You’re a librarian.”
I gathered up my things, amazed that my cell phone had survived the violence at the ice factory. My coat pockets, still chilled, were constant reminders of what could have been. I warmed my scarf in my hands and then wrapped it tightly about my neck, anticipating the final onslaught of the cold.
“So, how do you think Rose is going to receive all of this?” Silvia wondered.
“She knows more than you think,” I told her. “She knew what she was getting into when she took this job.”
“Yes, but can she deal with your penchant for mayhem?”
I drank half a glass of water, stood, and faced the front door of McKinney’s. “She’s tough,” I observed. “And I have a feeling she’s going to help me out of a scrape in the near future. I have a sense about these things.”
I knew I was right. And as I stepped out of McKinney’s that night into an uncertain future, I gave thanks for Lance and such good friends. I knew it was coming, but nothing was more surprising than the cold.
When I slipped into my car and started the engine, I imagined my father looking down on me, protecting me, somehow, through the Christmas name. Surely the season wouldn’t let me down. Nor I, it.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered. “Truly.”
Epilogue
Lance, of course, was waiting for me at home, just as Silvia had predicted. He was all business at first, chiding me for my intrusion into police business, my predilection for danger, the possibilities for other outcomes. But he softened when I unraveled the history, the pieces of our respective investigations falling neatly into place.
“You’re amazing,” he whispered as he whisked me upstairs toward the bedroom, nothing but candlelight coming between us. “I’ll never get over your luck . . . how you always find the answers.”
“It isn’t luck,” I told him, taking off my coat and loosening his Sam Browne belt. “It’s intellect. Ingenuity. Perhaps some intuition.”
Lance loosened my bra from behind. Drew my frozen body into the heat of his embrace. “Intuition, I can believe,” Lance said. “And what is your intuition telling you now?”
I didn’t answer. I showed him a demonstration. Even some ingenuity.
After all, there’s a first time for everything.
Coming Soon . . . Law-Away Plan
Lay-Away Plan
Vitae
Being a funeral director has its disadvantages, but when you are a third-generation mortician like me, and have a name like Mary Christmas, people seem to find their way to your door. Especially during the holidays. There is still a curiosity about Christmas.
But winters are difficult when you deal in death, especially when you’re in love. That’s why I’m engaged to police officer Lance Freeman. We understand each other—but we are also learning how to make a life together. Not an easy task for two people who have dedicated themselves to intervening in disaster.
But friends help, too—and when it comes to Silvia, David and my secretary, Rose Edgewater—I have three of the best.
That’s why I write these reports—in order to give credit where credit is due. After all, one doesn’t take on death alone, especially when murder is implied. It helps to have supportive friends . . . and maybe even a little luck.
I’m not going to say that these reports will go down in the annals of detective history, but as the county coroner I often have to investigate in order to uncover the truth. Sometimes I have to get my hands dirty. And yes, I might even have to dig into a few guts.
I’m grateful to be in this line of work . . . helping families through grief, burying the dead, honoring the living. To you, it may seem like business as usual. But to me, it’s a love affair with life. Every day is exciting.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it is this: death often leaves a trail for us to follow. And if we can get past the fear, if we can be courageous and step beyond it, we can uncover some amazing wonders. Even love. Especially love.
So if you’re the adventuresome type, don’t be afraid. Death never takes a holiday.
Just read my report.
You may discover that you don’t fear death nearly as much as you thought.
Chapter One
Another New Year’s Eve, but this one intricately planned, and planned to the hilt. As Lance always told me, God is in the details. And Lance, just like God on a good day, never left anything to chance.
“First, we dine,” Lance told me while we were lying next to the fireplace on the evening of December 30th. The day had rounded out to beautiful ending, with the bitter cold at last abating and temperatures rising, including our own. The fire, warming us on the floor where we had made love and then drifted into sleep, offered us its brilliant light when we awakened to make our plans.
“Where will this dining take place?” I asked, running my fingers through Lance’s thick hair, my head on his rising chest.
“I’ve made a reservation at the new place on Mass Ave,” he said. “Seven o’clock. We’ll have caviar, salmon, a nice bottle of white wine.”
“Sounds like a good begi
nning.”
“And after,” Lance continued, winding my hair around his index finger, “we’ll hit one of the swing bars, find a dance floor, work up a second appetite.”
“Go on.”
“And for the coup de grace . . . I’ve reserved a table on the penthouse deck of the tower. We’ll have more drinks, dancing, and welcome in the new year. We’ll plan to be home by one so we can put a little icing on the cake.”
I sighed and kissed Lance’s nest of chest hair. “I can get into that,” I said. “As long as I can get into you!”
I stared down at my engagement ring, not yet a week old on my finger, and admired the sparkles dancing in the firelight. Working non-stop through the winter cold snap, it felt as though Lance and I were still thawing. But the ring—and the promise of Lance—made my heart pump a little faster, warming all of my extremities where it counted.
“Great thing is,” Lance continued, “I have the whole day off, and New Year’s Day, too. We can sleep in. Have a leisurely breakfast. A pot of coffee. Read the paper. And if you like, I’ll even watch a college football game.”
This was one of our running jokes. Lance, with his penchant for the outdoors and his lack of interest in televised sports. And me, a college football junkie, always on the sly to grab a sneak peek at a game, the scores and highlights some of my most cherished diversions. “I have a feeling we’ll make our own excitement,” I said, leaving behind the box scores and kissing Lance with my tongue.
“I don’t know what you see in a football player,” Lance joked, holding me firmly against his warm, moist skin.
“It’s the tight pants,” I said. “But you don’t need the shoulder pads. You don’t need the help.”
Lance hugged me, allowed me to disappear inside his embrace as he wrapped his legs around me.